


The Last Son

by Listless_Bea



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alien Biology, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, My first fanfic the writing might be a little rough sorry, Omega Clark Kent, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, more characters to be added as i go - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-03-22 10:46:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13762464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Listless_Bea/pseuds/Listless_Bea
Summary: Clark has always known how difficult it can be to be an alien, but just when he thought he was done with his changes his body throws him for another loop.  No tentacles or extra eyes, which is a blessing, but still...  The change would probably be less of a problem if he could just stop staring at Batman's thighs and wanting smell his neck.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first fic and for someone trying to write I'm at a loss for what to write here. I just had to write this to get it out of my head.

Superman took in a deep pull of air he didn't need and tried not to let it out in a sigh. Gotham, he had to say, looked terribly beautiful tonight. 

This sudden thought was something, given this particular area of Gotham never looked pretty during the day, nevermind at night. The current view was looking down on one of the (many) abandoned warehouse districts.  
There were a multitude of cracks and little fissures going up and down most of the streets and concrete monstrosities (and while that sort of decay was usually caused by greenery taking back the night, it seemed like even nature couldn't be assed to try and spruce the place up). The warehouses themselves looked like they hosted most of the roaches on Earth and were merrily incubating new diseases by the second. And, inexplicably, the area had a persistent odor of dead fish despite being nowhere close to the docks.

But it was beautiful.

Something about the way the light struck it, maybe. Or that undercurrent of scent caught by a super sensitive nose.  
Though if he were being honest with himself, maybe it was just that he was feeling a bit odd lately...

_Slight stubble. Robust physique. Firm sculpted chest. Heartbeat strong, steady..._

Alien blue eyes flitted over his partners face, illuminated by the moonlight. It gave the other man's skin a dull glow from the slight moisture beading on it.  
Batman swiped a palm over his mouth and jaw, both slightly slick with sweat. The dead fishy updraft that snapped at their capes and cooled the dampness of the Bats skin under the cowl, the wind briefly tangling black and red before they slithered apart. He lowered his binoculars, and rested his hand over a knee as he ran his hand over his skin again.

“You feeling alright, B?”

He didn’t answer. Of course he didn't, but it wasn’t like Superman was expecting him to. Not really, since he rarely ever did answer if the subject even slightly teetered toward his health.

“Anything?” The modulated voice rumbled instead.

The sheen of sweat seemed to ebb a little; still Clark did a fast scan to check his temperature and see if his friend was flushed with a fever.

_Damp skin. Smells like rosewood, leather, and citrus. New cologne? His legs look really-_

“Nothing important, yet. Unless you wanted to hear Sid’s take on the best spring rolls in Goth-” His head tipped suddenly, sharp to the right, hearing the slide of Batman’s cape as he pulled out his grapple. The Bat knew what that gesture meant. “One of Maroni’s men just came in. You need me to-”

“No, thanks.” The cape fanned out, and like that he was gone leaving the faintest scent of his skin that really only someone like Superman could have picked up amidst the smell of fish rot.

The alien took a breath and blinked hard before scrubbing his own hand over his face. Then again, like he was the one sweating. But he remained rooted to his spot keeping an ear out just in case… in case what, Batman couldn’t take a couple of hoodlums? He took another deep pull of air he didn’t really need too much of.

_Wow, his back. Dang, those arms. Eight potential inches eight potential inches eight inches eight eight holy sh-_

“Ok.” The red boots dipped a moment before he took off, cheeks spotted with red and a bulge he hoped to Rao (or anyone who was listening honestly) wasn’t there till just now. At least not while he was chilling with the Bat for hours. He tugged uncomfortably at the ass of his spandex-like suit and snapped it, feeling discomfited in a way he’d never been before. It kind of itched. “Ok, now it’s a problem.”

\------------

It started out as nothing. Nothing at all, as far as Clark was concerned. Ok, so maybe his eyes were drawn more than usual to the shape of Bruce’s jawline, or to the sleek handsome haircut that Alfred or someone certainly not Bruce had cut. Maybe he's been noticing how well manicured his nails were, clashing with the collection of scars and the rough calluses on his fingers. Or watching how the shape of his lips bowed perfectly at the top and the lower lip filled out. How his face… it didn’t light up, Bruce never lit up, just softened. Softened and his lips would quirk and his face would warm and…  
Just, normal stuff you’d notice about your best friend who also happened to be really fucking hot. Plus, Clark loved all of humanity. Men and women alike, so looking at Bruce who was quite the example of lovely humanity even more than he'd done before was… well, it was ‘whatever’.  
Normal. Ish.

So, Clark didn’t think there was anything odd till two weeks ago when he was out on his morning fake out and enjoy the day jog and caught the scent of sweat and detergent on a dark haired man’s skin in passing (Normally he could turn that sort of thing off). And he didn’t know there was something _really_ wrong till last week he’d been trying to catch a cab and he’d just about broke his neck looking calculatingly at an athletically built (admittedly close to Bruce's build) man’s crotch and muttering ‘three inches’ to himself.  
But all of these incidents could be shelved in the part of Clark's brain labeled 'let's not talk about this ever’ and then he'd been good. A bit more flustered, but good.

But looking at his best friend's dick and having to jerk off furiously in a cloud and again in his shower when he got home probably crossed some kind of ‘that’s not too typical of my usual behavior’ line and sprinted unashamedly right onto ‘let’s play fantasize the dick size with Batman and wonder if you can get the whole thing in your mouth’ territory.  
So right. Problem.

_Eight inches,_ Rao.

“Hey, Smallville.” A delicately shaped eyebrow lifted. “Shall I leave you two alone? When are you planning to send out the e-vites to your wedding?”

Clark realized he’d had his lips stretched around a hotdog for longer than was socially acceptable (which would be about two seconds. And judging by his saliva alone he was going on one full awkward minute) and bit it in half catching a sort of area wide flinch out of his peripheral. “Showwy Lo. Beem kina pweoccupied.”  
He choked the dog down, catching the gazes of some curious lingering folk who were probably hoping to be entertained more. He sniffed a little, and wrinkled his nose.

“Preoccupied is an understatement.” She finished her last bite of lunch, a plain soft pretzel, slapping her hands together and starting the power walk back to the Planet. Clark stumbled after her, running into no less than three people somehow on the not so crowded sidewalk. She worked _hard_ not to sigh and failed.

He hunched up his shoulders a little helplessly and pushed his glasses up, catching up and matching her stride. “I’ve just had a lot on my mind, that’s all.” His hand went to his neck and rubbed it bashfully and sniffed again. “Sheesh, do you smell something?” He muttered. He knew it wasn't him but sniffed his sleeve anyways.

“It's trash day, if that's what you mean.” She turned her head and tapped the side of her lips. “Mustard.” Her short bob swung around her ears as she shook her head once.

“Oh, thanks.” Clark licked it off and _that_ shouldn't have made a few more curious heads turn to look at him surreptitiously. It was a little unsettling to have anyone looking at Clark Kent.  
The Planet was in sight, the food cart not far from the building. He paused at the newsstand as if his feet were suddenly rooted to the ground.

There on the cover of a GQ, top ten most handsome men in America, Bruce Wayne. His mouth was tilted into a funny charming smile, his hair artfully tousled and looking every bit the louche playboy he acted out daily.

_The smell of citrus and sweat… muscles bunching underneath leather… low smooth voice..._

“Handsome bastard.” Lois appeared at his elbow, sounding soft and far away.

Clark’s ears went gone red, his mouth gone dry and everything was starting to pool downwards with an alarming speed. “Can you let Perry know I’ll be… I need to go. I’ll be late back to work. Forgot something in my apartment.” And then he was blurring, the burning need to hide his oncoming erection greater in his dazed mind than the need to not suddenly be gone from Lois’ sight.

_And almost getting hard just looking at a picture of Bruce. It’s too much, too.._

Clark was in the air faster than a speeding bullet and stripped out of his suit and pants since a flying businessman would be questioned, no doubt.

The world was a blur around him, damp clouds cooling his skin for a second before burning up in his heat.  
Superman dove gracefully into the frozen waters, resurfacing at the bottom entrance to the fortress of solitude. The itch and discomfort of last night had returned and was slowly growing into something hard to ignore, and the dive in the frigid water did nothing for it. It was like his suit was suddenly too tight; he was hyper aware of the way it rubbed against the peaks and curves of his body.  
“Rao!” He barked, speeding himself out of his suit and leaving it a heap on the ground as he flew up to the computer room. He sighed and rubbed his arms even though he didn’t feel a chill.

_Wrong, wrong… something is…_

Clark staggered, his bare hip bumped into the pleather computer chair he’d flown in (completely incongruous, Batman said once staring in disdain, that this fortress with its crystals and the beauty of his home world would have a black fake leather computer chair from Ikea in it) and he fell onto it, letting the pleather cool his skin. He turned his cheek and nose to it, closing his eyes as it spun and settled with his weight.  
The scent was all wrong. Leather didn’t smell like this. But his suit might feel the same, the coolness and the texture _aaaand damn._  
Clark shot up and out of the chair, floating and staring at the offending bit of furniture. He crossed his thighs tightly and rubbed them together, sighing. The Kryptonian groaned as he scratched his blunted nails over his neck, then heaved a deep sigh as he looked down at his dick which was starting to harden again at even the thought about his friend. “ _Damn_.” His hand slipped from his neck up to his hair, tugging at the curls as he tilted his head back, his eyebrows furrowed. {{Computer.}} He breathed out softly in kryptonian. Clark’s hand slid down his chest and wound its way around his the base of his cock, his other hand moving from his hair toward his chest and twisted in the air.

{{Yes Kal El}}

{{Computer…}} His voice wavered as he gave himself a light tug at the base before moving up to gather precum to ease his strokes. He didn't need to do anything fancy, just needed to get himself off and stop the crawling warmth that flushed his skin. {{Search… search for...mmh Kryptonian afflictions…}}

{{Acknowledged}}

The computer paused just long enough for Clark to worry about whether or not it was bad etiquette to be moaning and getting your rocks off in front of an AI equipped computer.

{{Input symptoms}}

“Uhhh…” Clark’s face screwed up as he stroked a little gentler this time, trying desperately not to imagine anyone's face as he stroked his too smooth thumb over the little slit on the head catching drops of precum.  
_Is staring at men's dicks a symptom?_  
{{Uncomfortable… itchiness under the skin…}}, he blushed an even darker shade of red {{increased interest in male anatomy.}} He moved his free hand down, down and shuddered feeling an ample amount of wetness that had nothing to do with his dick. Oh. {{Hmm overly sen… sensitive skin… smell… taste, ooh…}} _fuck, yeah_ {{want to… want to… Uhm, what…? What?}}  
His questing finger found his asshole, feeling a slick slippery wetness, and his heart tripped in panic. Blue eyes snapped open in shock, not remembering when he closed them. {{ _Wetness from the anu... b-butt?_ }} Fear pitted in his stomach, started to make his erection deflate. He brought his hand to his face, staring at the slick liquid like a lubricant, but his earlier arousal still made it feel like he was still thinking through cotton fluff. {{ _Wet… cum?_ }} The wetness coated his thighs, dribbled down, warm and thick making indecent sounds as it hit the chair and floor.

{{No matching illness found}}. The computer said crisply, as if it really did disapprove of the activity happening two feet above it's keyboard. {{Searching related subjects… two results found.}}

He twisted in the air to face the computer, completely deflated but now uncomfortably sticky in places he'd never been before. His eyes darted over the screen, curling his legs up to keep anymore of the wet cum-like substance from hitting the chair below him. Scared or not, chairs cost money.

Clark read the basic information on the screen over... and read it again. A third time.

Omega.

"Uh."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two! Thank you all so so much for your lovely comments. I'll reply to them when I'm feeling less shy lol. But it's really uplifting to see them, and I love to hear what you all are thinking about things.

It wasn't really a big deal at the end of the day.

Clark flipped the egg in the frying pan in his small apartment. It was maybe one in the morning, and he’d figured eating something would help him calm down.

He was just a little more alien than he was before, was all. And the change itself, well, it calmed him immensely to know that it wasn't anything potentially _dangerous_. Which was good.

He flipped the egg again, watching the little bit of butter splatter out at the edges as he did.

All this meant was now he knew what some of the anonymous extra organs in his body, that he never quite figured out what they were, were for. Which isn’t a bad thing. In fact, it’s a good one. Thing.

The ice and damp that had dripped off him had long since formed a little puddle below his feet. His red boots were fucking somewhere, and the only reason he knew he wasn’t wearing them was because his feet were wet. Clark’s heart was fluttering and hammering in his chest like a bird was lodged there. Maybe this is what a heart attack felt like, he imagined it might be.  
He flipped the egg in the pan and patted it gently with the spatula like he was burping a baby.

Ok, ‘baby’ was probably not where his brain needed to go just then. But _no_. It was _fine_. He was _fine_. Good even, and not bad. He liked kids (another wave of panic hit him, he'd have to tell Kara… Rao, he'd have to tell Conner about this). And, heck, at least this time puberty came without pimples (not that he’d ever really gotten them). No, this puberty just came with a sloppy ass and-

He flipped the egg a little harder in the pan and patted it gently as if in an apology.

Despite everything having been ‘fine’ and ‘good’ and not in any way something he couldn’t cope with, in the Fortress when he’d expanded the search parameters and did a little more research after that initial find… well. He could barely remember vaulting out of the Fortress, nevermind the blurring trip to his apartment.

According to the computer, the closest Earth translation to this affliction meant “heat” and oozing out lubricant from… well _there_ was normal for a young “Omega".  
And there were more terms attached, Alpha, Beta…

A whole section of his home he'd not been fully aware of till he'd started thinking about dicks and wanting to stick his nose in Bruce’s crotch.

And though it had been a touch annoying to realize your going through some sort of insanely late second puberty, it had been more frigh-- _worrying_ to find out what his puberty signalled in his body. Which was about the time that he bolted.  
A large part of him knew he should have stuck around to learn more, but there was only so much a person could take.

_Give it a few days, Kent._

Clark patted the food remains once more before he thought to get a plate. He slid the little puck of charcoal onto the waiting plate, his gaze on it sightless. His tights were still stuck to the backs of his thighs, clammy and strange and moving again had only brought attention to the stickiness.

“Ok, Clark.” He crammed the hard little bit of egg in his mouth, hardly even tasting it as he pushed away from the kitchen counter. “Ok.” He didn’t know what was ok, but a shower was in order, by now.

The pressure in his shower was never anything to write home about. The Watchtowers showers or Bruce’s were much stronger, but there was something soothing about his little shower and it’s gentle spray so he’d never bothered to look into fixing it. Clark sighed and rubbed at his scalp to start.

The big question here… the real one was what the heck he was going to do about any of this. He briefly entertained the notion of asking for help… Maybe to… to make something halt his bodies changes… He knew women took birth control to stop periods sometimes, but would that even work for him? Was this like some Kryptonian period equivalent? That was something he’d need tested for sure…  
But the only face that came to mind(well, the only face he’d feel comfortable talking to about this) that knew enough about Kryptonians and could help him with this came with a boner.

_Shit, I’m going to have to figure something out soon if I ever want to talk to Bruce like normal again. Bruce..._ He felt his cock twitch with interest and groaned, leaning his head on the shower wall and resting his palm gently over his crotch. He felt his hole clench and the sigh that fell from his mouth was a little breathier, from deep in his chest.

“Think about something unsexy, think about something unsexy.” He rasped, water slipping past his lips.  
He couldn’t keep going on like this. At the very least, he needed to learn how to stop or control his sudden boners that were only getting worse when he thought too long about Bruce. Fucking Bruce. Fucking Bruce and his fucking stupid leather scent… The scent of his sweat and skin.

If he called him now, what would Bruce say about this. Clarked moan echoed off the cool subway style tiles. Surprised, definitely… “Something… something unsexy…” Would he want to examine him… take samples. “How is that… hot? Stu-aah, stupid… brain.” He humped his hand. X-Files harlequin scenarios typically didn’t (never) got him going, but little Clark didn’t seem to care right then.

Clark slipped a hand, as if in a daze, between his cheeks. “Something… un… uhn… sexy...” His blunt questing finger brushed the little pucker, imagining what it would be like to feel something thicker trying to stretch his-

_How the heck would I even be able to squeeze a baby out of my ass..?_

That did it.

\------------

The novelty of his discovery, if there even was any to begin with (there wasn’t), had worn off by the next day leaving nothing but a sort of tired numbness.  
Clark didn’t really need to sleep, but it was nice to be able to do it. Just like everyone else, his brain needed a break from the days stressors, but last night it looped worry like a bad song you couldn't get out of your head. _\--Roughly four inches--_ He’d spent some of the night wavering between going back to the fortress, back to Kansas, back to the watchtower, or just bite the bullet and go to Bruce. ...then he’d jerked off till his hand felt sore.

He tapped his pen listlessly against his keyboard, he had something he should be writing, probably. This was technically work and he was technically on the job. _\--Six point five inch potential, bent slightly to the right--_ His eyes flicked up to his computer screen.

‘Kl;;;,poo..;ljjk lkp’, it said.

The little fluff piece article was going to be late and he would possibly be killed by Perry, but that was for future Clark to worry about. Present Clark searched for any of his fucks, and he couldn’t find a single one anywhere on his person. Still adrift in his strange and curious sea of calm, one little article was nothing. _Seven, oh…_

"KENT. GET IN HERE." The bellow made the windows shudder.

Clark's eyes blurred suddenly in real honest panic, searching desperately for an escape route that would allow the rest of his body to follow without outing himself as Superman. He’d never glimpsed much older men, yet. Heck, he wasn't sure if his heated brain would even be interested. But the very thought of accidently learning the… accidentally learning _Perry White's_...  
"Y-yes chief!" He didn't have to fake the panicked stutter.

Perry White sat behind the barrier of his desk, thumbing through a set of papers in front of him. "Took you long enough.” He tsked as if the thirty seconds it took for Clark to get in the room had been one second too long. “Kent, I'm going to need you to head out to Gotham for a couple of days. I'd send Lane if she wasn't covering that Lexcorp story.”  
Perry threw down a folder, rubbing an eyebrow.  
“Wayne Tech’s got a co-op going with that up and coming Pinnacleworth’s aerospace labs, so I need you to go and cover-the fucks so interesting about my ceiling, Kent?"

Clark could practically feel the red spots on his cheeks and ears. If he could sweat, he was sure he'd feel it trickling down his neck. "Nothing much, chief just-"

"-don't call me chief." The man stared at Clark for a moment, watching a blood vessel in the bespeckled mans jaw jump as he clenched and unclenched his teeth. ".. Anyways, start by covering the gala Wayne’s throwing. The new head of Pinnacle’s Nanotech department, Dr. Fine will be there. Make sure you get a statement from both of them, you got m-”

Of course. Of fucking course, he had to go to Gotham. And not just be in Gotham, which was bad enough, he had to go and interview Bruce. Bruce who he still couldn’t figure out his fixation over. He didn’t know what he did to deserve this...  
He watched the line of his brow come into view as he furrowed it. Still i was just as well, Clark supposed as he chewed on his lower lip, he would have had to face Bruce sooner or later. Tell him about this… this thing. Maybe. Eventually.

_Rao, why’d it have to be Gotham…_

He belatedly realized he'd missed half of what Perry had told him, and the room had gone quiet in the brief moments before Perry either sighed and let him go or did his best Kermit the frog wig out on him and fired him. He wondered if Perry had x-ray vision given that Clark was pretty sure the man was trying to burn a hole through his head.  
"Yeah, right. I mean, yes sir. Chief. Gala, and get a suit that fits. Ask about the details of the Wayne Pinnacle project and see if I can get an interview with Fine or Wayne. Got it." His eyes almost wavered down before he forgot why he had them up there in the first damn place.

Perry scoffed. "That's all, Kent. And I want that piece the park kitten adoption or the fuck ever on my desk end of the day, and your ass to Gotham by Friday, got it? Go be weird somewhere else."

"Right, chief!" Clark fairly flew out of the office, covering the sides of his face like he had up horse blinders.  
He sunk into his chair, leaning back. A gala to go to, darn his luck, and what little concentration he had was definitely fucked now. He spun slowly towards the screen and tapped at the keys with about as much fervor as he could muster.

‘Kl;;;,poo..;ljjk lkpkittens are fat’, it said.

He pressed his palms over his face, glasses pushed up to his hair, and sank his head towards the keyboard. He let out a low noise like the air being taken out of a beach ball, shaking slightly.

It was going to be a long day. Week. Damn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The one thing about DC that I really admire other writers for, I realize after writing this, is like... I feel like I'm just picking from here and there or making stuff up with all the versions of Superman and Batman ~~(plus like... I like the superkids, but how many can I add before I'm like 'waaait, none of this makes time sense')~~.
> 
> Anyways, learning as I go! And leave comments if you'd like! Again, I love reading what you all think.


	3. Chapter 3

Clark had decided at a certain point (after goading himself into finishing the darned article that he found out would be going public on Daily Planets net page in a few days so he couldn’t actually sleep on this) to keep a journal of symptoms to make life easier. His second puberty already started super late and seemed to be… really long, so it wasn't a stretch to assume that yellow sun radiation was messing with the baseline normal of a healthy omega.

It was, he thought, a very smart and productive thing to do instead of pretending he wasn't sticking his fingers in his ears to everything going on in his life currently. Maybe it would even help to smooth the eventual conversation with Bruce so that he'd already be in the right direction for the 'ok, so this should be happening and this is different, what do we do now’ conversation.  Or he could simply slip away and push the notebook under his office door, like a high school kid dropping a love letter in a locker.

So he’d gone down to the copy room to snag one of the little spare Planet notepads normally reserved for giving out at flea market tables and a cheap Bic pen, feeling that brief little burst of groundedness for when you have a plan and you take that first crucial step towards doing it.

….He’d wound up only writing in it once for the day before abandoning it on his bed next to neatly folded clothes laid out for the trip. One need only write 'had to get butt plug + pads because it's like a broken faucet’ only once.

_ Still it was good to have found this out now… _ Clark pulled out his dumpiest grey slacks and added them to the pile.

Omegas apparently leak from time to time during their period. His pants would have likely had a large distressing wet spot by the end of the day. But, thankfully, he’d noticed it some time after he’d left the copy room and made it a point to try to leave work early and changed into The Suit under his work clothes to absorb some of the… the... (and then he'd spent the rest of his time at the Planet in quiet mortification, thinking back over the last few days and trying to remember if anyone had happened to give him a passing look of concern or pity after looking at the back of his pants).

But if he could leak like that thinking of... nothing (well thinking a little bit... a lot about Bruce, if he's honest), then he'd rather not be playing games in a room full of the fabulous rich and the reporters who haunt them.

The plug and box of super plus pads sat at the head of his bed, innocent and waiting to be implemented. He cast out his hearing a moment to see if anyone needed help to call him away from his own head, and squinted his eyes at finding nothing. Not even a cat up a tree, like they were all on vacation or something. It was an uncommonly peaceful moment leaving him nothing but to focus on his purchases.

Clark inhaled sharp through his nose, pressing his hands around his mouth before he reached for the plug. He’d gotten it first (before thinking of the pads), which had seemed like a smart idea. Just stopper himself up. Plug the hole.

He'd initially worried about the whole... toy shop while his libido was that of a thirteen year old kid, like even looking at sex toys would drive his fantasies wild and he'd drench his pants in the store.  But, the most the run in and out of the store had cost was a little tightness in his pants, a blush on his cheek, and about thirty dollars plus tax.

And it was nice looking butt plug, as classy as a butt plug can get. It was bulged at the end and shiny black and it felt smooth and sleek in his palm. It would probably go in nice and easy, how wet he was.

He stared at it a long moment, envisioning the slide and the stretch and... Then looked down at his crotch and the slight tent there.

Clark narrowed it down to panic as to why he’d thought it was a brilliant idea at the time. The plug was dropped beside the notebook, and he reached for the pads instead.

\------------

It had taken his clumsy shaking fingers and about two sacrificial pads to figure out how to make it work but, he did it. The wicked little(big) plug was tucked away in his rolling suitcase, and Clark Kent started to make the trek to Gotham that felt like muscle memory, how many functions it felt like that city threw.

Like it was trying to make up for something. Sorry, we got some of our design tips from Nosferatu, but hey can we throw a party or what?

Clark grimaced, cheeks immediately spotted red for thinking it.  _ Mean of me… _ He could almost hear his ma chiding him, even if she probably agreed with him on some level.

And it did occur to Clark that he could think this way right now. The last time he’d been in Gotham, everything felt and looked like a Disney movie.

“Hallucinations?” He murmured soft, but not soft enough to stop the curious(rude) double take and shuffle of the person beside him(closer?). Not that he paid it too much mind as he moved his hand like he was gripping a pen and writing. Maybe he shouldn’t have abandoned his journal so fast.

Unlike the plug, the journal was left in a drawer.

“Impaired judgment.” He stepped onto the train and stood against the wall despite quite a number of seats being open. He was Superman, so literally anyone else he figured would be more in need of a seat than he ever would. Though now that he thought about it, he was curiously tired. That was a new thing for him.

“Fatigue...” His cheek rested against the cool metal of the train, watching the scenery zip. “...” Before he knew it, before he could change his mind, his phone was in his hand.

Me: Hey, Bruce. I’m coming to Gotham for that gala. We need to talk :[

His finger twitched at the top of his phone, sort of missing his old flip phone for the finality and drama of the snap as it shut. Instead, Clark merely looked out the window again and pretended to have the train jostle him along with the rest of the crowd. When the reasonably empty car grew a crowd was beyond him.  _ More out of it than I reali- _

“-Um.”

Clark’s eyebrows lowered as he shifted himself away from the stranger that jostled a shade too close… and into another stranger that was pressed curiously near, who murmured an apology. “Uh, oh, excuse… pardon me…” Clark shifted again to try to regain a bit of his space, finding none. The kryptonian furrowed his brow and craned his neck to look over the crowd and his mouth went flat.

It was a bit full, as always at this hour, but it wasn’t like there were no seats available still. He pushed his glasses up as his eyes flitted to the emptyish spot near the doors to next car over and clutched his suitcase, the thought of being surrounded right now suddenly… sort of too much. And all the bumps and shifts didn’t help. He could feel his skin beginning to flush where anyone accidently bumped him, like a rash.

_ Is this what a rash feels like? _

“P- _ pardon _ me. Thanks.” And he may have shoved a little more than he might normally to make it to the door. “Sorry.” He murmured, feeling someone skin bump up against his thigh, unease pitting in his stomach.

He finally shouldered his way into the corner and breathed out the breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding in, turning his head slightly to the crowd that he wouldn’t have minded in the past. Clark turned his head away from them and shut his eyes, lightly hitting the back of his head against the wall and feeling concern lodged like a brick in his chest. Thick thighs rubbed together under his suit in an attempt to ease the sudden itch under his skin.  _ Could’ve got calamine for three bucks instead of a thirty dollar buttplug. Would have been smart... _ He ran his hand down his chest and grimaced.

 

That or he probably should have kept that stupid fucking notebook.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long break! This chapter was hard to do, and honestly I'm not a fan of it :[. But this is ok, and I accept it LOL. I just needed to stop pissing around and like... write it so I can get to more parts that I actually enjoy. Clark is still a bit freaked by all this, but he's trying lol.
> 
> Brucie in the next chapter @w@!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am pretty bad at posting on a schedule. Anyways, here is the next chapter~

There are two things Clark learned over the course of his trip to Gotham.

The first thing is that super plus pads are apparently alive. They move all on their own, despite the little flappy glue arms meant to snug your underwear, which is mighty inconvenient (still mostly did the job, though he'd make sure to get the night time pack once he's run out). 

The second is that he can apparently get cramps. And it can just come right the fuck on, almost out of nowhere, like evil magic. It comes in a wave and brings with it a feeling like a rash that spreads all up and down his thighs and it's like a dam opened up in his ass.

The third thing is that cramps, in fact, hurt like multiple bitches. Hurt like a pack of Cerberus' sharing double straws like flirty dates to get the last bit of innards out of you. And the Bayer low dose he always has on hand (because inevitably _someone_ in the office will have a migraine or a headache and it's nice to be able to help out the odd Jimmy while appearing like the masses who have more regular headaches and the like) does exactly fuck to ease the pain.

Now, Superman never considered himself to be a stranger to pain.

Things did, in fact, hurt sometimes.

Like kryptonite or purple pink tinged lasers of death or fucking Lobo. But, none of those feel like someone very meticulous re-arranging your intestines into an origami dragon while periodically punching you so hard in the asshole that you clench up and want to apologize for whatever it was that you did that was so awful. So, in terms of pain, he thinks he'd rather have a laser beam to the face and pray to be knocked out.

The last thing he learned he'd rather not focus too much on, but it came with a desire to go spelunking up said clenching ass with his fingers because it seemed to be about the only thing that helped the pain until the cramps went away on their own.

And really, that was maybe five or six things he learned and not two like he'd thought earlier but who was counting. And, knock on wood, he wouldn’t be having another cramp anytime soon. At least not before this gala was done and he’d had a chance to talk to Bruce.

Still, Clark felt slightly more at peace than he'd been expecting to feel given his current circumstance. This was probably due to the fact that he had all his arsenal all ready (pads for catching provided it didn't move, and the mental image of launching a baby out of his ass to deflate his arousal). Outside of curling up like a cooked shrimp in the middle of the floor from cramps, he had all the majors covered. And if he happened to forget himself and look at a dick, well... it was less noticeable then wetting himself and walking around with a boner, so it was on the bottom of the socially inappropriate things he could do.

He took a long pull of water, and tugged lightly on his collar and wrinkled his nose at the smells that seemed to be everywhere nowadays.  
And normally he would be actively seeking out his interviewees, but he was feeling a bit warm with this press of people around him. His eyes drifted briefly down before he remembered himself, eyes flitting up quickly. _Nope._ And he shouldered his way past a couple, chatting and tittering away, murmuring apologies as he went. You’d think with this big a room you’d run into less people. It really didn’t help that everywhere an errant hand or elbow or hip bumped into him, left his skin itching awfully in their wake.  
He found himself fetched up against the refreshments table, the only spot he'd seen that was pretty empty, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead and his breath coming out a little heavier like he’d run a marathon. He dragged his sleeve across his forehead.

_I wanna go home, already..._ Leaving a note under Bruce's door felt like a better idea by the second.

He drained the remainder of water from his glass, his face feeling flushed. A little trickle of water escaped the corner of his mouth, tracing his overheated skin with coolness, as he tipped his head back and…(and yeah it was getting harder not to notice people would give him the up and down. Like instead of looking like the intended slightly too big tweed nightmare kinda frumpy journalist he was a Victoria Secret model wearing underwear with ‘juicy’ in glitter printed over the ass).

But all thoughts of people staring too intently at Clark Kent slipped away from him as he became more aware of a very familiar smell.

A quick look around found Dr. Fine chatting quietly in a corner with what looked like perhaps a few coworkers, but he passed over the man because apparently fuck work (Perry would probably kill him, but future Clark would have to suck it up and deal with it). There was only one person he was really looking out for, now he caught it...

And there he was. Clark gripped his glass tight enough to hear a fine shrill noise of warning that he only had about ten more seconds of this before he turned the goblet into hard to explain powder. He bit his lip holding in a sigh.

If Batman was all kevlar and tight leather and hard muscle bulging therein and... and a stern grim mouth. With a voice that could strip you down and went straight to your dick and... _Focus_ ...if Batman was all that and a bag of chips, then Bruce Wayne was meant to be the… well he was hot, too, he was the… fuck, was that new cologne. Wait, no he was the... opposite. Or something.  
Clark’s mind paused a moment to grasp at words and his thoughts that he, a writer, typically excelled at and came up with an equivalent of ‘buuuh’ followed by about eight heart emoji’s which was about five emoji’s past being obnoxious. This moment passed all while watching Bruce Fucking Wayne walk in what felt like slo-mo like he was on Baywatch. _More like babe watch, am I righ-_ (The voice in his head sounded suspiciously like Kara, and if Clark Kent could divorce his brain _right this second_ —)

So here was the charming billionaire with angling smiles and leering eyes that could possibly be arrested for indecent exposure, who looked absolutely devastating in a three piece. A man who could be a foppish airhead at one moment, then cut you down the next. One his arm some glittering beauty that could blind half of Gotham with her dress and jewelry alone. And under all that, a mind as sharp as anything. Always twelve steps ahead; That was Bruce Wayne.

Bruce's eyes found Clark's, gaze piercing for a moment before a gregarious smile lit his face and he made a beeline towards him. “Clark!” His arms went wide and he reached out to pat his shoulder. “How’s my favorite reporter do-”  
Before either knew it, Clark's arms locked behind Bruce's back and stayed there (instead of the usual shy arm pat move he typically employed with his public friendly acquaintance Bruce Wayne). And he must have blacked out because Clark didn't remember deciding to do this at all. And they stayed there in that awkward embrace for a while. Long enough for Bruce's arm candy of the night to look a little startled, eyes darting between their faces. Long enough for him to hear a couple snaps of the camera.  
And if Clark looked equal parts mortified and euphoric to anyone watching, it was because he was. He dipped his head slightly, just close enough to his neck that he got a whole noseful of that smell that was driving Clark up the wall. And he couldn't move yet (not only because Bruce smelled really fucking good) because if he moved everyone would see what Bruce was surely _feeling_. Half happy little Clark made himself known against Bruce's stomach and if he could just disappear now, that would be just swell. But how _else_ was Clark supposed to deal after Bruce went and touched him like that so suddenly.

Probably he was supposed to react like a person who got a pat on the arm. Right.

_Babies out of your ass, right, how do you fit babies out of your ass. Naked Perry, come on, Dark Sied's balls—_

Slowly, like it was killing him, Clark peeled off one finger at a time. He could feel his body clenching up, ready for another onslaught of cramped as his vision went hazy. Still he started to step back away from the man, only to have Bruce's hand lock tight on to his upper arm and forcibly swayed him back before tugging him closer to his chest again.

“Wo-hoh there, big guy.” And he grinned and chuckled an almost careless laugh, one winged eyebrow lifting. He slapped him amiably on the back. “Had a little bit too good of a time already? How many drinks did you have, Kent?” And he began tugging Clark out of the main venue and towards the restroom. “Angie, stay there and beautiful for me, alright?”  
They rounded the corner, passing the restroom altogether and went in an office just past that. It was only then the facade dropped and Bruce turned to look at him with something like concern on his face. A knowing probing look. “Clark—”

And Clark breathed out the only thing he could think of before his brain turned further to mush. “My ass is leaking.”

And that was the last semi-coherent thought he had for a little while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant for Bruce to have a longer bit, but I felt this was a fine place to stop. I'm still learning to write faster~

**Author's Note:**

> This all came up from reading too many ABO and thinking that Brianiac is that kind of fucker who'd say things like 'ah, the end of Krypton' and 'the last son' and feel very clever about his double meanings, as robots might.


End file.
